This week I posted on my instagram account, @thetenderhuman, about how I’d finally wandered over to the reports page on Amazon to see how many print books I’ve sold since making my book available on the behemoth.
And I learned—sad trombone—I’ve sold a mere 20 printed books. Twenty books! After 3.5 years of toiling and more than $20,000 for classes, workshops, voice recording, editors, etc. It feels like a huge investment for what, on paper, seems like a paltry return.
Once upon a time, high on the thrill of finishing my first draft, flush with feedback from my first editor who I thought was a Goddess, I started to wonder if my book might become kind of a big deal. I imagined a large number of interested readers—enough to make a bestseller list, for sure. Over time began to dream of selling movie rights and foreign rights and an uprising of women inspired to own their pleasure and connect with their authentic desires. I was full of hope! And…hubris.
Reality had other plans. When I launched on Substack, some people read it. More than twenty, easily. But a lot of people didn’t get the platform (fair) and a lot of people read the free previews but wouldn’t pay for the whole thing ($11, grrr). And the dozens of promotional prospects I had identified as opportunities to elevate my book? No one called. Authors I felt friendly with who I hoped might mention my book to their peeps? No one did. And then, right in the middle of the release, I crashed my bike and got a concussion, which meant I was not supposed to look at computers, and I couldn’t think very well, anyway.
There was much suffering. Goodbye-cruel-world-level sorrow. IT DID NOT FEEL GOOD.
It was in reconciling these feelings, however, that I started to see—slowly but surely—my part in creating the disappointment. My suffering was a product of entitlement. Despite being a new writer, having virtually no platform, and publishing independently (without a publisher backing me), I hoped—no, I believed!—my book could be the next big thing. It was, I see now, a little de-lu-lu.
This week, confronting this new measure of what could be called failure (20!), some of the same feelings crept in. For all the effort I put in, all the shouting from rooftops (Instagram) and street corners (Facebook) that I have done…twenty books. Through my old lens, it’s enough to make me want to drown myself in eggnog and surrender to the abyss. But as I’ve come to terms with what is, I have realized something profound, and that is how much I gained from writing the book that I couldn’t have acquired any other way:
I learned how to write a pretty good book.
I finished that book.
I did lots of things WAY out of my comfort zone.
I learned how to navigate Substack.
I made new friends.
I learned to read better.
I developed massive courage.
I honed my self awareness.
I demonstrated to others that it’s safe to confront their fears.
I gained perspective on my entire life, but especially the most painful parts.
I HEALED THOSE PARTS.
I impressed myself.
I surprised myself.
I learned to trust myself.
I proved that done is better than perfect.
I failed and kept going.
I looked foolish but didn’t quit.
I became a voiceover actor.
I worked with incredible people.
I solved the mystery of parasocial relationships.
I overcame profound disappointment.
I got to do interviews!
I got to rename everyone in the book!
I probably inspired others.
No, I definitely inspired others.
I received unsolicited praise from strangers. Wildly affirming, it-was-all-worth-it praise.
I got to know the pleasure of a dream and the pursuit of a desire.
I connected with a family member I had never met (not since I was a baby), and received the blessing of her support.
I was invited to guest star at a book club.
I learned tons about publishing.
I added “Author” to my bio.
I located an ex-boyfriend I’d been trying to find for years.
I discovered new authors and read great books.
I got to write acknowledgements to people I love dearly and publish them.
There were infinite other joys as well, but the greatest lesson of all is this:
The point of creating is the act itself. It is the hope, the uncertainty, the confusion,
the tussle, the mystery, the glee, the question, and the revelation.The point of the effort is the work, not the reward.
I’m so glad I know this now.
My book took me farther than I ever imagined or dreamed. It changed me. It MADE me. And it’s not over…now that it lives and breathes it gets to have a life of its own, or many of them, with anyone who buys the book. So far there are twenty! Plus people who listened on Substack or downloaded it on Audible or Kindle.
So the number isn’t huge. I wrote a book I’m proud of, and it changed my life.